


Prologue to Happiness

by dearxalchemist



Series: The Triumvirate [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Multi, OT3, One Shot, Overprotective Partners, Polyamory, Pre-Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 01:31:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7339126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearxalchemist/pseuds/dearxalchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Every lady needs jewelry and you can’t wear that ring.” He reaches over and gently captures her left hand. Solo’s fingers aren’t calloused like Illya’s, they’re softer. He’s gentle with her as he pulls at the ring and he watches over her shoulder as Illya stiffens.  It's true though, she can not wear the ring while going in alone, now is the time for her to be a spy without them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prologue to Happiness

The dress is red and not her color, which is the lie Illya tells himself as he watches her get ready. Solo moves around her as she stands in front of the hotel’s tri-folded mirror. There are so many bodies to watch with the reflections behind them. Illya watches from the end of the bed, still upset. His arms are crossed along his chest and his lips are set in a thin line as he watches his partners go to work. Solo is almost like a bird, flitting around Gaby who looks almost scared. He wonders vaguely if she’s trembling, wonders what exactly is going through her dark head as she stands still while Solo pulls the tights up her legs, hooking them carefully into her garter belt. 

Gaby stands nearly still as a statue. Her hair is pulled back, her lips are painted to match her dress and she looks almost sad. Her mouth isn’t curved up into the usual smirk as the American finishes dressing her. He tops off her dress with a gold bracelet snapped around her wrist. It’s heavy and real and stolen. Gaby’s brown eyes slip from her reflection to Illya’s in the mirror and then down to the bracelet. She raised her wrist and gave it a soft shake, raising her brows to the American who was now smirking for the three of them.

“Every lady needs jewelry and you can’t wear that ring.” He reaches over and gently captures her left hand. Solo’s fingers aren’t calloused like Illya’s, they’re softer. He’s gentle with her as he pulls at the ring and he watches over her shoulder as Illya stiffens. He sits up, shoulders straight and mouth turning downwards to form a frown. The Russian doesn’t move though, not even when he tugs the ring away from her finger and drops it into the jacket pocket of his expensive suit. 

Gaby gapes up at him, brows pulling together as she raises a hand up as if to snatch her ring back, “Give that back.” 

Napoleon shakes his dark head and takes a slight half-step back from the small mechanic all done up in the finest reds Prague had to offer. Her dress is short, her hair is perfect and the makeup is meant to be smeared away by their mark, “No. It doesn’t match and besides, you are not to be engaged this go around.” 

He reminds her like the thought of the mission isn’t pressing down over her shoulders. She feels like Atlas holding the world, but unlike Atlas she feels like she’s going to drop it. Illya moves behind her, she catches the movement in the mirror and she tries to turn to follow him, but he leaves the room. Solo exhales softly through his nose and he reaches up, warm hand smoothing across her cheek, “Tonight will go fast. You just have to get the Count into the room. From there I’ll get the safe in the basement.” He runs through the mission like it’s nothing more than a simple intelligence gathering mission. Like she’s not about to strip down to her stockings and roll around the bed of the Count. His thumb smooths over the curve of her cheek, down to the edge of her lips where he avoids smearing her makeup. 

“What if you can not crack the safe?” She pulls her head back from his warm palm and steps out of the lights that surround the tri-standing mirror. Her black heels sink into the plush carpet of the expensive hotel and she already wants to pull them off, toss them aside and bury herself back in the thick duvet that covers the bed. She forced herself past the bed and moved to the vanity, tossing on a few sprays of perfume to cover up the thick scent of motor oil and hot metal that always seemed to follow her around. Solo followed her out of the bedroom, into the main room where there was already a chess set splayed out on the floor, the pawns and pieces scattered across the thick carpet. Their Russian comrade stands near the back of the couch, fingers gripping on the furniture so hard that his knuckles are bloodless and she can see the tapping of his index finger against the cushion. Illya’s anger fills the room with an intense feeling of drowning. Gaby wonders if he’ll last the mission. She is no longer worried about herself. It’s hard to worry about her own skin when Illya won’t meet her gaze. His blue eyes are focused on something far, far away. His chest rising and falling is the only indication that he was the cause of the mess. Stepping up she hooks her hand in the bend of his elbow, startling him and tugging on him. She pulls on his arm like a child would because even in heels, Gaby is still small in comparison. Her insistent tugging finally pays off, he looks down at her and the world on her shoulders suddenly feels a thousand pounds heavier. Her stomach drops like she’s swallowed a ball of lead. 

“I’ll crack the safe,” Napoleon finally answers her, he’s leaning in the doorway behind her but her eyes are on Illya. Illya who is keeping her pinned in place. Illya who is silently pleading with her not to go. She doesn’t want to go, but this is for the job. This has nothing to do with their relationship. The three of them somehow managing to make themselves work like a machine that has been fit together with odds and ends. Gaby reaches up and touches his face carefully with her free hand. Her fingers trace the scar near his eye, fingernail dipping in slightly to go along the smooth skin. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t give Solo and ounce of recognition either. He stays rooted to the spot, fingers on the couch and eyes on her. 

“See,” Gaby whispers the words quietly, “Solo will crack the safe and I’ll come home to you.”

Her words don’t make him smile. They all knew it was only going to be a matter of time before this sort of mission came along. It just happen to fall in Gaby’s court, their mark having a taste for beautiful woman and to Illya there was no one more beautiful. Her fingers tightened on the bend of his elbow and he finally blinked, nodding his golden head down to her. Releasing the couch he moved both of his hands up, skimming past her cheeks and let his fingers ghost along the back of her neck, tracing the column of her throat. His fingers end up behind her neck, lacing together, pulling her up. He doesn’t kiss her though. He can’t risk ruining her well-painted mask for a selfish kiss, but when he speaks she can feel his every word.

“Cowboy will get safe first.” He is speaking against her but to Napoleon. His accent is low and thick, heavy against her. It’s her favorite sound next to the moan he always gives her when she rolls across the bed to find him. Illya’s blues pin her in place as his calloused fingers trace the back of her neck, down to the edge of the dress’ collar and dipping down to touch the start of her spine. Every touch he gives her feels like an electrical surge across her nerves. Gaby swallows hard and opens her mouth only Illya cuts her off first. He carries on his conversation, “He will get safe first, I will be point, and you will not lose this dress until after mission.”

By point he means he will be across the building, on another rooftop with a high powered rifle. No doubt he’ll be watching her and not Solo. Gaby wants to interject, she wants to tell him he can’t always control the mission. She want’s to tell him that she is a grown woman and a talented spy -- that this is all part of the job. Only the words don’t leave her mouth. Gaby takes solace in his words, she nods numbly to him. 

“Good,” He nods firmly at his own instructions and slowly lets go of her, his hands smoothing down the back of her dress, clearing away the wrinkles. He pulls her in only for a moment to let his lips touch the crown of her head. It’s a light touch, but she clings to it as the phone rings. Her taxi is here and the mission begins.

**Author's Note:**

> I am not real sure what this is or where it came from, I just knew I needed more OT3 in my life. I take requests / prompts @tulipsohhare


End file.
